Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [95]
“Mourning wasn’t there, of course,” Hy went on. “No one was. Brockowitz had a torchlight. He set it on the ground, told me to hand over the L.C.”
“And then he’d produce Mourning?”
“He had no intention of doing that. Mourning, he said, had planned the kidnapping; the two million was his money, and he had a right to it. I asked what about Diane Mourning— wasn’t it her money, too? Brockowitz seemed to find that very funny. He said Phoenix Labs was on its way to Chapter Eleven and that one of the Mournings should get clear with something. Stan was getting ready to go for his piece, I think, when Salazar came through the door.” He paused. “Of course, I didn’t know his name at the time. To me, he was just your run-of-the-mill bandit.”
“Did Brockowitz go for his piece then?”
“Nope, he froze. I got mine out, but Salazar shot it right out of my hand, just like in the western movies.” Hy’s smile was pained, self-mocking.“He got me up against the wall, went through my pockets, took my cash. All the time Brockowitz stood there looking stunned. Tough guy, Stan.”
I felt as if I were living the scene as he told it. I could feel the terror trapped within the adobe, smell Brockowitz’s fear-sweat mixing with the sea air and cordite….
Hy went on, “The L.C. was in an envelope inside my carryall.” He patted our bolster. “Salazar ripped it open, found the L.C., looked at it. And then he just went crazy. Screamed, ‘This is what you call a fuckin’ ransom? Just a piece of paper, man? He must ’He must have been outside long enough to hear everything we’d said about the Mournings and the two-million-dollar payoff. Anyway, he tossed the bag at me and went for Brockowitz. And that’s when Stan went for the gun in his pocket.” Hy shook his head. “Dumb shit had stuck a thirtyeight in his pocket, for Christ’s sake. It snagged. Stupid bastard.”
“And Salazar shot him.”
“Yeah. And I dove out of there, using the bag as protection. Ran like a fool expecting a bullet in my back. Salazar didn’t even fire.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Down the far side of the mesa, where that horse ranch is. Didn’t even think about the rental car I’d left on Monument Road; somebody probably hot-wired it and drove it across the border before daybreak.”
“And then what?”
“I got lucky for a change. Fell in with some illegals who were headed for a safe house in San Ysidro. They were leery of me, but those people are so afraid, and I spoke Spanish and looked like I was in more trouble than they were. They let me come along, and the next morning I started asking around. I’d gotten a good look at Salazar; he’s distinctive, well known down there. By eleven I had a name and address. Got some money—Salazar didn’t take my credit cards—set myself up with another car, and staked out that alley off of Island Avenue where he’s got his place.”
“How come those charges didn’t show up on the account when Kate checked with American Express?”
He grinned wryly. “Because I actually found one of my own cards that hadn’t expired. Given what had gone down, I didn’t want to involve the foundation any more than I already had.”
“Okay, and then?”
“Nothing until Tuesday night. Around eight Salazar and a big guy—I think the same one who was on Fontes’s terrace tonight—came out in a hurry. The guy drove him to General Aviation at Lindbergh; a Cessna picked up Salazar, and the other guy left. I hung around, talked to the line people. One of them told me the Cessna belonged to Gilbert Fontes. I got him to check with Clearance Delivery; the pilot had said he was VFR for El Sueño, Baja.”
“Ironic,” I said. “You must have been flying out just as I was flying in. We missed each other by only that much.”
“Negative. I drove. These small airfields, any stranger attracts attention. Trouble was, the car broke down north of Ensenada. I had to have it towed, notify the rental company. Then I hitched a couple of rides, didn’t get here till late Wednesday night. This whole venture